


Sore Shoulders

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle pulls some muscles at the Dark Castle, and Rumpelstiltskin can't have his housekeeper in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sore Shoulders

                Belle’s arms shook a little as she set down the heavy tea tray. Her favorite teapot was an unadorned and thick white and silver-grey porcelain. Its accompanying cups were handleless, with scalloped patterns, and the set’s clunky efficiency appealed to her. This afternoon, though, she wished she had opted for one of the thinner, more fragile sets. She had spent most of yesterday uncovering windows and then scrubbing decades’ worth of dust and grime off them. They were three rather small windows, but now a previously dark corridor had a small stretch of light, and she was pleased by that.

                At this moment, though, with her neck, back, and shoulders clicking and burning with every movement, the clean windows seemed a very abstract prize for the pain she was in. As she poured Rumpelstiltskin’s tea, she stretched her other arm and felt a satisfying pop in her shoulder.

                “Are you all right, dearie?” he asked, voice light. Belle poured her own cup and gratefully sat the teapot down.

                “I’m fine, just a little sore from cleaning the windows yesterday.” He raised his eyebrows, expression neutral.

                “I didn’t ask you to do that,” was all he said. Belle smiled uncertainly at him.

                “I didn’t think you would mind. I just liked the idea of it.” He shrugged, though Belle could not determine whether he was truly indifferent.

                “Let’s take care of that soreness, though,” he said, voice softer, lower than usual. “Just sit on the edge of the table.” Belle obeyed almost reflexively. He had healed her occasional cuts, and once, a broken wrist, with his magic, but it was silly to use on such a small thing as a sore frame. Still, she wasn’t in a mood to argue with him, so she braced herself for the sensation of magic—like being suddenly dunked in a barrel of ice water, almost painful in its bitterness. Rumpelstiltskin pushed the tea tray, minus his own cup, out of the way, and hopped easily onto the table. Belle jumped a little, surprised, then stilled as he settled behind her, sitting cross-legged.

                Still braced for the shock of magic, Belle held herself very still as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Instead of the ice she expected to pour from his hands, though, she felt his fingers move against her, and she realized his intention was not magic at all.

                No matter how well she trusted him—and she did, he was fair and often kind—Belle was not used to such a close touch, especially not from a man. She willed herself to be still, silently reminding herself that he was simply showing his kindness again. And his hands did feel good, his fingers along the top of her shoulders, his thumbs kneading heavily into her sore muscle. She decided to not think, and simply enjoy the feeling.

                His hands—careful, strong, spinner’s hands—moved across her shoulders, rubbing and gripping the tight muscle. He was careful but not gentle as his slightly roughened fingertips moved down her arms, sending a deeper kind of pain through her muscle, the wholesome kind that chased away soreness. Belle hooked one of her legs around a leg of the table in an effort to stabilize herself. She was trying to stay as still as possible, but her muscles felt like warm honey, and she was becoming worried that she might simply fall into Rumpelstiltskin’s arms. His fingers moved back toward her neck, and his thumbs pressed against either side of her spine, his long fingers resting lightly against her neck. Belle felt heat rush up to her face, and the walls of the hall blurred a little as she lost focus. A bit of that heat sank low in her belly, and she swallowed. Her mouth was drying up. Rumpelstiltskin paused for a moment and sipped at his tea, setting the cup down near her hip with a click.

                This was fast becoming something she did not want to face, as her heart pounded faster and her breathing shallowed. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands moved down her back, kneading against either side of her spine.

                “Mmm,” she breathed out softly, before she could stop herself.

                “Is this helping?” he asked, voice light and detached as ever.

                “Yes,” she managed, voice much lower and rougher than usual. His hands moved carefully up her back again, and one of his nails grazed the back of her neck. Belle bit down on her lip as the skin all over her body turned to gooseflesh. There was wetness gathering between her legs, and her body ached everywhere he wasn’t touching her.

                It was wrong, she thought, to feel for him what she had been told she must only feel for whomever she married. But his hands were warm and heavy, and every press of his knuckles sent a shock through her body and left more moisture at her thighs. All Belle’s muscles felt limp and useless, and she wanted to slump back into his arms, feel him against every inch of her. Her face was so hot and flushed, she was grateful she had left her hair down today, as it covered the sides of her face. Her shuddering breathing could be explained away as unease. If she wasn’t careful, though, she would make noise again, and then things between them would turn uncomfortable and embarrassing. She wanted, though—things she shouldn’t want, as his fingers worked at the tension low in her shoulders and sent more heat through her. Wanted to think that if she did groan and lean against him, maybe he would press her down on the table and cover her body with his. His hands moved back to her neck, and his nails scraped against her skin again. Belle couldn’t help but let out a soft moan at the sensation, curling her fingers around the edge of the table. He withdrew his hands immediately, much to Belle’s regret.

                “Have I hurt you?” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice sounded hesitant, almost worried. She tried to relax her grip on the wood.

                “No, not at all,” she croaked. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak, and she worried that she would not be able to stand. Even with his touch gone, the aching between her thighs was scarcely subsiding, and she was sure she had soaked through her underwear into her petticoats. She heard him move back and away from her, and he passed her her tea, which was now rather cool. Belle sipped it anyway, trying to put some moisture back into her mouth. “Thank you,” she said, somehow forcing her breathing back to normal. “I feel much better.”

                “No bother, dearie,” he said, moving off the table and giving her an elaborate bow. She tried to smile normally at him, but felt she had botched it when he gave her a sharp look and left the room without further conversation. Part of her was glad, as she was still flushed and bothered, but the rest worried that she had offended him somehow.

                Deciding not to worry about it, she put everything back on the tray to take back to the kitchen. She _did_ feel much better: less sore, if a little shaky.

 

Rumpelstiltskin paused outside the door of the hall, flexing his hands. That had been one of his better ideas, or perhaps one of his worst. His intention had only been to make her more comfortable, and if he happened to get to touch her as well, where was the harm? She was an innocent, and he couldn’t think of trying to take that away from her: she didn’t fear him, and he liked it that way. And he truly hadn’t expected to like the feel of her quite so much, the warmth of her skin through her dress. He wanted to never stop touching.

He had done as he intended: rubbed away the ache in her muscles. But he had made her flushed and uncomfortable, and he wondered if she hadn’t appreciated the massage, though she said she had. Perhaps she did not like to be touched, and who would, by him?

The look in her eyes, though: dark and blank, and her face flushed… He must be wrong, for it had been a long time since he had been witness to that particular emotion, but he thought, for just a second, that his fearless, pure housekeeper had shuddered under his hands in arousal instead of revulsion, and looked at him with want instead of her usual curiosity.

He must be wrong, but it was an enticing thought.

**Author's Note:**

> I may have pulled almost every muscle in my body and then written this fic. Anyway, I'd love any constructive criticism you could offer me.


End file.
